“All here, sir, ’cept poor Joe Dance. I ain’t seen him.”
“Ain’t looked,” said a faint voice from under the men’s legs. “They chucked me over, and I’m afeard I’ve squashed poor Mr Russell, for I come right down upon him.”
“Then nobody’s missing,” cried Mark, joyously. “Look here, my lads; oars out—pull! pull!”
The men obeyed as vigorously as they could, rowing back toward the schooner, but slowly, for the tide was running sharply still, and the fight was hard.
“What yer going to do, sir?” said Tom Fillot, in a low tone.
“Do?” cried Mark, excitedly, for his blood was regularly up; “why, have another try, of course.”
“Well done us!” said Dick Bannock, thickly. “I’m ready. We ain’t beat.”
“No good, sir,” growled Tom Fillot, in a low, deep voice. “We ain’t beat, but we can’t do it, sir, for want o’ strength.”
“What?” cried Mark, who was determined upon his mad project—mad now in the face of so many difficulties. “There isn’t a man here who will not follow me, and I’m sure you won’t turn tail, Tom Fillot.”
“Not me, sir,” said the man; “you’re orficer, and where you goes I follows. It’s hard lines to let go of a prize like that. Lay her close alongside, sir?”